


This Strange Eventful History

by carelessplanets



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aromantic Hawke, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Slavery, Character Study, Early-Bird Cameo, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Give Hawke a Break, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carelessplanets/pseuds/carelessplanets
Summary: A collection of loosely-connected one-shots, each reflecting the companions' relationship with Hawke throughout their years spent in Kirkwall.
Kudos: 2





	1. Carver

If Carver closes his eyes, the fields around Lothering are green and alive. The tall, lush grass stirs quietly in the wind, sending shining waves across the endless pastures. The days are slow and the nights are quiet, and the Hawkes are growing up. 

Carver is ten years old. Lothering is small, but so is he. He has not seen much of the world, and he listens to the travellers’ stories of the magisters and the oxmen and the Dalish and the Crows. He soaks these stories in, willing himself to be reborn in one of those tales. He closes his eyes and sees the dragons and the hallas and the Necropolis and the streets of Minrathos.  


Carver opens his eyes and sees Fergus’s back. He watches Fergus watch Father’s back, both of them walking away into the woods. Away from prying eyes. Away from the world where magic is a monster. 

Carver is eleven, and his hands are always cold. The strange old lady from next door says your hands go cold when they miss something. Carver watches Fergus and Bethany make fire dance across their knuckles. 

Father doesn’t get angry when Carver steals one of his dusty tomes. 

‘You cannot steal magic,’ he says, pulling Carver’s ear lightly. ‘Besides, it is too dangerous a gift.’ 

‘You’re just saying this to make me feel better.’

Father almost smiles. ‘You are clever. You have your mother’s eyes.’ 

Carver doesn’t know what he means. His eyes are blue, just like Father’s and Fergus’. 

Carver cannot sense the Fade, so he learns to sense people’s hearts. He learns their voices, the tilts of their heads, their postures and gestures and all their little tells. He discovers that people fear magic but demand protection, so he picks up the sword. 

He picks up the sword and decides to never let it go. Words can kill, but so can steel. Steel is solid, steel is cold, steel is unforgiving. 

Carver is twelve, and his hands are never cold. He trains with his sword from dawn until dusk, and he laughs with relief when his palms burn with blisters and calluses. He trains with Father, he trains with Fergus and Bethany, but he learns the most from travellers. 

But travellers travel on, and Carver stays. Carver’s life is watching backs walk away. 

He is thirteen when Fergus melts the skin of his own hand. It happens over dinner, in the heat of an argument.

‘Can’t you just stop?’ Mother asks, clutching the fork so hard that her knuckles turn white. ‘Just pretend that it does not exist, and stop training them?’ 

Father scoffs. ‘If left unchecked, magic becomes even more dangerous.’

‘But what if someone talks?’

Something snaps in Father, and he slams his hand on the table. ‘What do you suggest we do? Send our children away so they spend their entire lives in a prison?’ 

Carver forces himself to look up from his bowl. Bethany is staring at her chowder, brows furrowed, fingers shaking slightly. Fergus sits on the opposite side, mirroring her pose. They heard this argument many times before, but never in their presence.

‘You chose this life,’ Father says. ‘You cannot—’ 

Fergus looks up and before any of them know what is happening, his left hand bursts alight in magical flames. 

There is a split second of dead silence, and then Fergus screams. 

Chairs fall and cutlery clatters as everyone leaps up and rushes to Fergus who lies on the floor, clutching his burning hand and screaming in agony. Father extends his hand. He clenches his fist, and the motion extinguishes the flame. Carver and Bethany kneel beside their brother, and Bethany’s hands hover over Fergus’s, glowing with warm yellow light. 

Carver knows little of magic, but he has seen Bethany and Fergus train long enough to know that wielding magic without a staff is dangerous for even the most skilled mages.

In a beat, Fergus’s screams reduce to hissing. His jaw threatens to snap, veins protruding on his neck from tension. His dark hair sticks to his sweaty forehead. 

‘Why would you do that?’ Bethany cries even though she knows it was an accident. ‘Why would you hurt yourself?’ 

Fergus is silent for a long moment. He looks up at Mother. His eyes are dark and unmoving, and something cold stirs in Carver’s stomach. 

Mother holds Fergus’ gaze, her eyes as stern as his. 

‘It was not my choice,’ Fergus says slowly, voice shaking. His eyes shift to Father. ‘None of it was.’ 

Bethany sniffs and Carver clenches his jaw so hard he sees stars. He hears the unsaid words in the silence that follows. 

_I never wanted this. This is who I am. You will not sweep me under the carpet._

They never hear that argument again. 

One autumn afternoon after training, Carver and Bethany play tag on the riverside out of boredom. Father and Fergus walk by, heading towards the forest. Carver waits for Father to turn and call for Bethany, but he never does. 

Bethany is puzzled, so she runs after them. Carver finds a stick and busies himself with drawing mabari and dragons in the sand. 

Five minutes later Bethany comes back, brows furrowed in confusion. 

‘Father says I have nothing to learn for the moment,’ she says. ‘Fergus needs to catch up with me, he says.’ 

That makes Carver’s hand slip, and the dragon’s horn stabs the mabari fighting it. 

‘Right. And I’m King Calenhad.’ 

Bethany recollects her dignified countenance and proceeds to stab the sand dragon with her own stick. She smirks at Carver’s incredulous expression and jumps away as he chases after her. 

As Carver’s fingers slip past Bethany’s scarf, a scream rings over the forest, startling a large murder of crows. 

Carver exchanges an alarmed look with Bethany. It was Fergus’s voice. 

They stand frozen like statues for a long moment, unsure what to do. Of course, sometimes either Bethany or Fergus get hurt during their training; so does Carver. The screams were never that loud, however. They were never that angry. 

And then they hear Father. 

‘Resist it!’ he shouts, his voice clear and commanding. 

An expression of terror washes over Bethany’s face. It is serious, then. Still, she does not move. It’s as if she was hit by a paralysis spell. 

She does not want to go, Carver realises. She is terrified. 

Carver darts off into the forest. 

He finds them in a forest clearing not even a mile away from the village. They stand about ten feet apart, Father with his staff ready and pointed at Fergus. Fergus is on his knees, doubling over and clutching his head as if keeping it from exploding. Waves of dark green arcane energy swirl around him, threatening to swallow him whole. 

Carver has never seen an abomination, but he has heard too many stories. 

‘If you cannot resist a little temptation, you are a threat to everyone,’ Father shouts. 

Carver has no time to think. He lunges forward and throws himself at Fergus. He tightens his grip on his brother’s shoulders, steading him, and turns to Father. 

‘Stop it,’ he cries. ‘Whatever you are doing, stop it! You are hurting him!’ 

‘He is doing it to himself. He must learn to—’ 

‘ _I asked you to stop!_ ’ Carver screams so loudly that his voice breaks, sharp pain tearing through his throat. 

Something in Carver’s eyes must have struck Father, for he freezes, staring at his sons blankly. Fergus lets out a growl before looking up. The green mists dissipate slowly as Fergus’s breathing evens out.

Father’s silence makes Carver uneasy, prodding at his unwanted sense of guilt. Before Carver can apologise and embarrass himself, Father sighs in defeat. He turns around and walks away. 

Once Father’s figure disappears among the trees, Carver releases the breath he did not realise he was holding. Fergus chuckles, and the two brothers sit together in silence for a few moments, waiting for fear to subside. 

‘Father thinks I am weak in spirit,’ Fergus says eventually, tugging the grass with his scarred hand. ‘Easy prey for demons.’

Carver thinks for a second. ‘Which demons?’

‘All sorts. Rage and desire, mostly. Envy, too. Full bouquet, that is.’ 

‘Ugh.’ Carver cringes. ‘We’re lucky I am not a mage, then.’ 

That clears the air a little and Fergus laughs. 

‘Do you suppose,’ he says, still smiling, ‘do you suppose things would be better if I left?’ 

‘Doesn’t that mean that Bethany would have to go too?’

‘Not necessarily. Well, all mages are like those ticking bombs. But it would be easier for you to watch one back instead of two. Especially when the second one is steps away from becoming an abomination.’ 

_This is important_ , some inner voice tells him. _Whatever you say next will leave a trace._

Carver is not a mage. If Bethany were here, she would have known exactly what to say and how to comfort Fergus, how to reassure him and support him. Carver could say many things, however. He could say that Bethany would never forgive herself. He could say that Father is always afraid, and that Fergus would never submit to demons. He could say that Fergus is the bravest person he has ever known.  


Carver can’t say any of these things. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, as if a demon, or a spirit, was pressing it down, keeping him from lying. 

He is still a child. He can afford to be selfish. 

‘I don’t want you to go,’ he says finally.

Fergus looks at him. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards and he lets out a short laugh. ‘Alright.’ 

One night when Carver is fifteen, he dreams. He dreams he fights in a sparring match, the vibrant clash of steel reverberating in his ears like a song. A swarm of dozens, perhaps hundreds of faceless masks surround the ring, chanting restlessly: _Hawke, Hawke, Hawke_. Carver is a brilliant swordsman, a prodigy with unparalleled skill. The other boy does not stand a chance against him. And then – just before he can deliver a final blow, there is a twist of pain in his wrist, and the sword slips out of his hand. That momentum, that minuscular fraction of time is all it takes for his opponent to defeat him. 

Carver wakes up in tears. He tells Bethany he dreamed that Fergus died. 

Carver turns sixteen, and Father dies. Father dies and Fergus stays. Fergus always stays.

If Carver closes his eyes, the fields around Lothering are green and alive.

Carver opens his eyes. He looks up at Fergus’s face, his brother’s blood mingling with dust and dirt and darkspawn bile. 

‘If Carver dies, then so do you,’ Fergus says to the Warden, voice flat. ‘Trust me on that.’

Years ago, the fields around Lothering were untainted by the Blight. The three of them – Fergus, Bethany and Carver – would run through these endless fields, chasing the wind, their laughter filling the quiet summer air. They were inseparable, and nothing could ever stop them.

And now, Bethany is dead, and Carver’s blood is no longer his own. The Hawkes have grown up, and there is no home to return to. 

As Carver slips into the comforting embrace of darkness, he does not see a tunnel of light. He does not hear Andraste, nor does he see the Maker. All he sees is Fergus’s back. 

Carver breaks into a run and catches up with his brother. He puts a hand on his shoulder, looking into his calm, sad eyes. For a moment, Father is looking back at him.

Then, Carver takes a step. Another. And another. 

Carver does not look back, but he knows that Fergus is unmoving, watching Carver’s back as he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? projecting onto video game characters? more likely than you think. i swear the next chapters have more plot.  
> regardless, thank you for reading this!


	2. Aveline

Here’s a secret: if Aveline could go back in time and strangle Jeven all over again, she would do so without a beat of hesitation. And she would really, really enjoy it. Maker forbid, of course, this secret escapes its owner. It is, after all, Aveline’s sacred duty to organise the sorry remnants of Jeven’s city guard and re-establish a proud and honourable protective force. 

As the new Guard Captain, Aveline is expected to introduce measures for maintaining peace and stability in Kirkwall. Being a guard, you see, is not just about walking around the streets and looking intimidating. It is also about catching the bad guys. Above all, a guard must prevent bad things from happening. To do so, an exemplary guard must be able to identify the bad guys _before_ they commit a heinous crime. Jeven’s idiots do not seem to understand the concept. 

One of her recent recruits, a pretentious but otherwise decent young fellow, told her about the studies they conduct at the University of Orlais. The study involves the assessment of subjects’ facial expressions, and the application of said expressions to contextualised circumstances and so on and so forth. Reading faces, that’s what Aveline calls it. One must learn to ‘see through bullshit’, in Varric’s terms. 

The study sounds like a reasonable opportunity to initiate the reformation of the Guard. Aveline likes facts, likes numbers, likes systems. They are by nature rational and ordered, like the Guard of Aveline’s vision. 

An opportunity to test the study presents itself when the Guard receive an anonymous tip. Aveline puts herself in charge of the investigation. Should she succeed, she will introduce a measure requiring all guards to undergo the training. 

She decides Hawke is the perfect subject for her inquiry. The man wears his heart on his sleeve and should act as a useful reference in the investigation. 

Aveline finds Hawke in his library, alone. She takes a mental note to add this to a long list of Hawke’s peculiarities. Generally, he begins his day at the Hanged Man with Varric at about ten in the morning. Don’t get her wrong; keeping tabs on Hawke was for his sake and that of Kirkwall itself. 

Hawke reclines in his armchair beside the cold fireplace, reading, dozens of books scattered on the floor around him. He seems concentrated, eyebrows slightly furrowed. His long legs are propped up on the desk, and an open book lays on his knees. For a briefest moment, Aveline feels a pang of guilt for disturbing him. 

Finally, Aveline approaches him. Hawke glances at her briefly, indifferent, and returns to his book. 

‘We received an anonymous tip suggesting that a smuggling operation is to take place sometime this evening.’ She waits for him to respond. Nothing. ‘It points to a soiree at Lord Woldeley’s mansion.’ She slams the note onto the desk. ‘I need your help.’ 

Hawke’s eyes gloss over the note, over the neat, angular script. He squints at Aveline. ‘What’s in it for me?’

‘A gratifying sense of justice and satisfaction in the knowledge that a crime has been prevented?’ 

Hawke hums, pretending to consider it. He rubs his thumb and index finger together. 

Aveline groans. ‘ _Fine_. You will be generously rewarded.’ 

‘Marvellous,’ Hawke muses, beaming. ‘I will collect you at seven, milady.’ 

Maker willing, this won’t be too difficult. 

As they enter the Woldeley mansion that evening, arms linked and best outfits on, Aveline realises it will be excruciatingly difficult. The place is packed like the Hanged Man on a Friday night, except it reeks of expensive fragrances and of wine instead of cheap beer and sweat. The nobles swirl around the long marble hall, colourful outfits mingling in a whirlpool of iridescent hues. There is a band playing at the end of the hall, hidden by a curtain. Servants, both elven and human, move through the crowd effortlessly, dressed in bright garments to remain unnoticed, carrying trays heavy with exotic fruit and cheeses. 

Varric’s invitations worked like a charm, though Aveline would still prefer not to explain to anyone what brings the guard captain to one of the most ostentatious parties of the season. She expects Hawke to draw all attention to himself while she carries on the investigation. 

‘What is it they’re smuggling?’ Hawke asks in a sweet low voice, leaning closer to her ear but not breaking eye contact with some fair-haired nobleman. 

‘The note was devoid of details. We know neither the participants of the operation nor the product they are moving.’ 

Hawke hums, keeping his eyes on the nobleman as they walk past him. Oh, for the-- he winks at him. ‘So we have no notion of what is going to happen.’ 

‘None whatsoever.’ 

‘This note may be a prank.’ Aveline nods. ‘Fascinating. I will start with the host.’ With that, he lets go of her arm and slides away into the crowd, flashing mischievous smiles at anyone he passes. 

Aveline sighs as her eyes scan over the crowd. Woldeley is known to be an old name, going back to the Exalted Age. The current Lord Woldeley is a petty lord and an ardent duellist. That is why he allows the guests to bring their weapons in case anyone needs to defend their honour. Aveline notes with surprise that she is one of the few guests carrying a weapon. There are several armed rough-looking people roaming the hall, their jackets and dresses fitted awkwardly, who she assumes to be the bodyguards. 

No mages, however. Unsurprising, considering current events. Hawke had to smuggle his staff in with the help of Varric’s friend, a servant employed at the mansion. 

Several people glance up at her in confusion, obviously sensing she is out of her element. She moves forward through the crowd, taking in the laughter and idle chatter buzzing around her. There must be something she can—

She is so preoccupied with observing the guests that she almost crashes into a child. The girl barely reaches Aveline’s hip and stares up at her in wonder. A short, feeble-looking man is holding her hand. He looks startled as he meets her look. 

The cogs turn in Aveline’s head. His eyes are red, hands and knees trembling – indication of intoxication or addiction. Gaunt, pale cheeks – withdrawal? 

Aveline’s eyes pause on the man’s hand, the one interlocked with the child’s. His knuckles are white with strain, grip unnecessarily strong. The child’s eyes are not wide with wonder, Aveline realises. It’s alarm. The girl tries to pull her hand free of the man’s grip, but to no avail. 

Aveline gives the man a quick glance as she crouches beside the child. She offers her a reassuring smile. ‘Everything alright here?’ 

The child tugs her arm again. The man does not let go. ‘Yes,’ she whimpers. ‘No. I want to go home.’ 

Aveline glares at the man, frowning. 

He chuckles nervously. Plasters a thin, strained smile. ‘She’s tired. I couldn’t leave her home alone.’ 

Aveline places a hand on his shoulder and attempts a threatening smile. ‘I trust you will enjoy the night.’ She squeezes his shoulder, and the man yelps.

She has no time. She will have to keep an eye on them, as well as on dozens of other guests. Shit. 

While she walks on, many guests are talking drunken nonsense about next morning’s hunts and cruises and their friends who cheated on the husbands and wives and so forth. Nothing particularly suspicious, mere gossip. 

A servant runs into her, almost dropping his tray of empty glasses. 

Aveline yelps and puts a steadying hand on his arm. An elf, she notices.

‘Maker’s breath, I am so sorry! Are you okay?’ She hopes her tone is persuasive enough. Inspiring trust. 

The servant flinches, panic flashing across his face, and shrugs her hand off. ‘Yes.’

Aveline is not ready to let the opportunity go. ‘Does Woldeley treat you well? Did he ask you to move anything for him recently?’ She searches his face for any clues. 

‘Yes. No.’ His eyes flick to the side, somewhere behind Aveline’s shoulder, and then he scurries away, not saying another word. In that brief moment, Aveline catches sight of a smile.

She turns around and meets the eyes of a young nobleman, the smile mirrored on his face. 

Aveline steps aside into the shadow of a marble column and procures her notebook. She flips the pages and goes over the preliminary notes she’d taken that afternoon. 

_Expression 1: Smile._

_Type A: Directed largely at Merrill, Isabela, Varric, and (previously) Carver. Emotion: Love? Trust? Frequency: Low to Medium._

That was the elf’s and the nobleman’s smile, Aveline thinks. 

_Type B: Examples: Bethany’s death, Leandra blaming Hawke. Most confrontations with Anders or rebel mages. Emotion: ~~Hatred?~~ Frequency: High. _

_Type C: Examples: Fight wi_

‘Keeping yourself busy?’ Hawke asks casually beside her, glass in hand. 

Aveline jumps and shuts the notebook, sliding it back into her breast pocket. She turns to him, fuming. ‘I thought you were supposed to talk to Woldeley.’ 

‘I did. Well. Not exactly. He’s passed out on the floor. Not the prime suspect, I would assume. The Lady’s not talkative, either. Looks bored.’

Aveline takes a deep breath. ‘So we have no leads. Some people seem on edge, though.’ 

‘Good thing there aren’t any Orlesians here,’ Hawke notes, toppling his glass and placing it on a passing servant’s tray. ‘Would have been trickier to see through their _actual_ masks.’ 

Aveline frowns. Makes another mental note. This should be the next step in her training: identifying a liar by their voice only. 

‘There is one Orlesian guest, actually. Beside that column. Wearing a full-face mask.’

‘Just one?’ Hawke leans closer to her, tongue slurring slightly. ‘Suspicious, don’t you think?’ 

Aveline ignores him. Sliding her arm under his, she takes off in the Orlesian’s direction. 

The guest is standing alone, a half-empty champagne glass in gloved hand, posture straight as a string. They are wearing one of those unnecessarily complicated Orlesian headdresses, hiding their hair and neck. They turn their head slowly as Aveline and Hawke approach them, movement eerie, as if they are a statue coming alive. The silver mask is attached tightly to their face, revealing nothing but a glint of light blue eyes.

Aveline takes in their loose shirt, silver-stitched black vest and tight silky trousers tucked into shiny leather boots. No visible weapons. 

She smiles sweetly at them. ‘I don’t believe we have been introduced. Interesting to see someone foreign in this swarm of Free Marchers.’ 

The stranger looks at them for a long moment, then takes a quick sip of their drink. 

‘Marquis de Dubois,’ they say, bowing slightly. ‘A humble lord and a scholar, at your service’. 

Hawke cringes beside Aveline. ‘Maker’s balls, your Orlesian is appalling.’

Aveline tenses, suppressing the urge to reach for her sword. 

Dubois puts their hands up, chuckling lightly. ‘Now, now, let us not throw empty insults around.’ Andraste help them, the fake accent is truly horrendous. ‘Why don’t we talk in the corridor?’ 

With a humble _shall we_ , ‘Dubois’ strides off towards one of the doors, motioning Aveline and Hawke to follow them. Aveline exchanges an uncertain look with Hawke but goes anyway. As he is wont to do, Hawke trots along. 

As soon as they enter the empty servants’ corridor, Dubois’ glass shatters and their hands are on Hawke’s collar, slamming him into the wall. 

‘If I am discovered because of you’, they hiss, Orlesian accent slipping away, revealing a fluid, confident Free Marches pronunciation, ‘you two will not live to see another day—’

Away from prying eyes, Aveline is happy to grip her sword’s handle. ‘Back off.’ Surprisingly, Dubois listens. ‘Explain yourself.’ 

The impostor scoffs as Hawke adjusts his collar. ‘Perhaps instead of pestering random guests you should occupy yourselves with the task at hand.’ Their Trade seems modulated, almost polished. 

She stares. ‘ _You_ left the tip?’ 

‘And you are obviously the guard they sent to investigate. If I may offer an observation?’ 

‘You may not.’ 

‘You do not blend in particularly well, _mademoiselle_.’ 

Oh, that’s _it_. ‘That’s _madame_ for you, you—’ 

In the scuffle that follows, Aveline has time to note two things: 

Did not recognise the Captain of the Guard. Did not recognise Hawke. 

She backs away from the impostor, giving them time to readjust their headdress. ‘You are not from around here, are you?’

The stranger makes an odd sound, as if suppressing a scoff. ‘How very observant.’

‘You could just lie that you were the tip. Maybe you are the smugglers’ contact. Otherwise, why would you hide your identity?’ 

Dubois scoffs again, though this time with less confidence, raising their hands a little as if Aveline was an untamed beast. Hawke is motionless beside them, and for a long, silent moment nothing happens. 

Before Aveline can draw her sword, Dubois and Hawke move. Hawke’s hand reaches Dubois’ mask at the same time as their hand grips Hawke’s forearm. The mask shatters and Hawke cries out in pain as a visible bolt of electricity snaps at his arm. 

The broken silver fragments fall to the floor with a sharp clang, the headdress tumbling down with them. Aveline draws her sword, watching Dubois’ every movement. 

Oh. She pauses as her eyes fall on the stranger’s face. 

‘ _Fenedhis_ ,’ the stranger spits, rubbing blood off from underneath their injured nose. ‘Do shemlen really know nothing but brute force?’ 

The mask was hiding a young face of an elven woman. One of those intricate Dalish tattoos line her brown skin - two sharp half-circles on her forehead and a row of small triangles with tips facing away from them. Between the half-circles, a strange ornament, and Aveline realises the design must represent a bird with its wings spread. Two thin waved lines run along each cheekbone, crossed by thicker lines that could either suggest claws or talons, interrupted by dots in several places. 

The elf tucks a few wild strands of auburn hair behind her pierced, pointed ears, and meets Aveline’s look. She must see the questions in Aveline’s eyes, so she recollects her stately posture and clears her throat. 

‘A member of my clan disappeared a week ago, his trail ending dangerously close to Woldeley’s land north of Kirkwall. We watched his summer estate for days but found nothing. I sent the anonymous tip in hope that the guards would cause confusion and a distraction for me to search the Mansion.’ Her light elven eyes flash dangerously in the dark of the corridor. ‘Though I now realise that I have set my hopes far too high.’ 

Aveline frowns. Before she can say anything, Hawke speaks up. 

‘If he is Dalish like you, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him, right?’ He motions over his face. 

The elf shakes her head. ‘He has no _vallaslin_. He underwent the ritual last year, but it had to be interrupted as he could not bear the pain. He was deemed unprepared, accordingly.’ She sighs. ‘As the Keeper’s First, it is my duty to find him and bring him back safe. If my identity is exposed to the Woldeleys, my clan will face immediate danger.’ 

Hawke says something but Aveline cannot hear him over the roaring rush of thoughts flooding her head. A Dalish elf disappearing. A nobleman and an elven servant sharing love and trust.

Aveline’s blood runs cold. She remembers the child pulling out of the man’s grasp, and the latter’s wet, red-brimmed eyes. She blamed it on alcohol or lyrium at first. Now the fragments begin piecing together. 

‘It’s the guests,’ she breathes. 

Hawke and the elf turn slowly. 

‘They are smuggling slaves.’ Her heart races savagely, threatening to jump into her throat. ‘The guests are the slaves.’ 

Realisation dawns on Hawke’s face. ‘Oh, fuck.’

‘It must be Lady Woldeley,’ the elf whispers. ‘She moved from the summer estate to Kirkwall a few days ago, accompanied by two carriages filled with nobles. Slaves disguised as nobles and their servants, that is.’

Aveline groans. ‘Another noble criminal. What are we supposed to do?’ She is the guard captain. She is supposed to _know_. 

‘Kill Lady Woldeley, obviously,’ the elf says. 

‘This is madness. If you do that, the guards – the armed smugglers – will hurt the slaves.’

Hawke shakes his head. ‘No, they won’t. The slaves are an investment. They won’t damage their own goods.’ He flinches at the ugliness of his words. ‘She must be the contract holder. Kill her, the deal is compromised.’ 

The elf gives him an inquisitive look. ‘Do you perchance have a staff hidden nearby?’ 

After Hawke retrieves his staff from the wine cellar, the three of them crouch at the door leading to the back section of the main hall.

‘If you cause a distraction,’ the elf says, ‘it will allow me at least some time to search for—’ 

A new melody reaches their ears, beginning with a swift and complicated flute fragment. 

The elf’s eyes widen. ‘That’s Arras. He’s in the band.’ She turns to Hawke. ‘Will you help me?’ 

Without a word, Hawke crashes the door down and strides into the main hall, staff ready. The mansion erupts in screams, and Aveline follows him and the elf, sword in hand. 

Hawke sends a blast of fire into the air, where it crashes into the ceiling and shatters the chandelier. Pushing through the panicked crowd, the three of them reach the band in less than ten seconds. The elf flails her arm, and a current of storm magic hits two armed smugglers, sending them flying backwards. In a swift feline movement, she jumps onto the stage. There, a dark-haired elven boy clutching a flute, huddled with seven other slaves. 

At the sight of the woman, Arras yells something in their language, tears gushing from his eyes. The elf jumps towards the boy and grabs him by the shoulder. 

She turns to face Hawke and Aveline. ‘I have what I came for. The rest is not my problem.’ 

Aveline stares. ‘You do not care about other slaves?’ 

‘I must protect my clan.’ She looks at Hawke and speaks in a low voice that only him and Aveline can hear. ‘If anyone you trust wishes to trade with the Dalish, tell them clan Lavellan is peaceful and ready to negotiate.’ 

With that, the two elves disappear into the rushing, frenzied crowd. 

Aveline looks up at the balcony and sees Lady Woldeley scream at armed men, furious. 

‘Send the guards to the docks,’ Hawke shouts, face distorted with anger. ‘Go with them.’ 

‘I will not—’ 

‘Go!’ 

What can Aveline do but listen? 

She leads two units into the docks. They find the smugglers’ ship quickly enough – it was the only one with a busy crew onboard. They successfully arrested the group without much bloodshed – they are merchants, not soldiers. Turns out Lady Woldeley planned on sending the slaves to Tevinter under the guise of a ‘cruise’, gaining a hefty sum for her efforts. The armed guards at the party were her men, ensuring none of the slaves disobeyed. Lord Woldeley knew nothing. 

She finds Hawke outside of the Mansion, watching a raging fire consume the building. The man glances at her as she approaches him. 

‘The guests are safe.’ He shakes the ash off his sleeve. ‘Lord Woldeley is in the ditch, sleeping the wine off. Lady Woldeley is dead.’ 

Aveline cannot make sense of Hawke’s expression. It’s empty, but something hides in his eyes, something she cannot fathom. 

She pats her breast pocket. Shit. 

Hawke taps her shoulder. ‘You dropped it while scuffling with the elf.’ She stares at the notebook in his hand. 

Aveline takes it and hides it into her pocket. ‘I will send the—’

‘Keep the money.’

‘ _What_?’ 

Hawke does not look away from the blaze. The shadows dance on his face, sparks flickering in expressionless eyes. ‘Got that sense of justice you were talking about.’ 

Once she’s back at the barracks, Aveline remembers to take note of Hawke’s last expression. She flicks through the pages, searching for the fitting category. 

On the page titled _Expression 1: Smile_ , Aveline pauses. 

Under type B, the previously crossed-out _‘hatred’_ now stands out in bold letters, traced over with ink several times. 

And right there, to its left and slightly above it to fit after _‘emotion’_ , attached with a hyphen, a small word in an unfamiliar handwriting: _‘self’_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody expects the inquisition. not even the inquisition itself. oh boy


End file.
